


Sheet Anchor

by goldfinch



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfinch/pseuds/goldfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No," Boris had said the night before, vehemently, shaking his head. "I will not let you do this."</p><p>Translation into 中文 available: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7762804">[翻译] 依靠</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixhalfmk/pseuds/Sixhalfmk">Sixhalfmk</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheet Anchor

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻译] 依靠](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762804) by [Sixhalfmk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixhalfmk/pseuds/Sixhalfmk)



> sheet anchor - n.
> 
> 1\. Nautical: A large extra anchor intended for use in an emergency.  
> 2\. A source of aid in time of emergency or danger.

Boris's weight is an anchor, his sleeping body slung over Theo's, mouth warm and dry at his neck. "No,"  Boris had said the night before, vehemently, shaking his head. "I will not let you do this." Theo, high on painkillers and drunk out of his fucking skull, struggling against him toward the bridge. Rushing black water. Death by hypothermia if not on impact. It comes to him in pieces: rain in the street, fierce whispers in the dark. This, apparently, was how Boris had kept him alive when they were kids, too, stories Theo wouldn't have believed except that they dovetail so well with what he knows of Boris's character, and what he remembers of his own mental state during those two long years in the desert, sunburned, half-crazed with grief and drugs. Which really hasn't changed much, all these years later, if he's still waking up to Boris pinning him to the bed, keeping him alive and killing him at once.

"Potter," Boris's voice says, warm and rough in the morning stillness. One hand searches out Theo's in the sheets - across his collarbone to his arm, down his elbow, tangling their fingers together in sleepy warmth. "Go to sleep. You're okay, and besides, is too early for thinking."

Except it isn't. Hobie is already up. Theo can hear the copper rattle of the kettle in the kitchen, the creak of floorboards underfoot. He can smell the rubbery sweetness of eggs on the stovetop. And they have so many things they need to do today.

"Potter."

Theo yawns into Boris's hair. "Yeah yeah," he says. "Fuck you."


End file.
